


What was there to say?

by PaperThoughts



Category: Shameless (TV), Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:51:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperThoughts/pseuds/PaperThoughts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He didn't need a love confession or a ring. He just wanted to matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What was there to say?

What was he supposed to say?

Fuck you. 

All the words on his tongue were like ash and he couldn't stand anymore to see that same fucking look. The one that said he'd messed up again. Leaned on the wrong person again. Tried to be something worth the risk. Fucking failed again. 

He wasn't smart like Lip. Or sweet like Debbie. He wasn't industrious like Carl or a survivor like Fiona. He was Ian. The only defining factor between him and the rest was his sexual orientation that lately- no, always- seemed to cause him nothing but drunk sleepless nights staring at the bottom of a bottle. And if he refused to see the parallel in his stupor and Frank's life it wasn't because of thumping beat of a hangover against his skull.

Jesus, that fucking prick was really going to tell him to wait in the basement of the VFW for him to get married so they could fuck again. He would have laughed if he hadn't felt the bile at the back of his throat. Stand there for a fucking hour while he was holding hands and promising to stand by her forever and always amen. But Mickey never saw beyond his fear and his enclosed space closing in on him. He'd always fought against what he knew he wasn't supposed to have until it was unavoidable. Until Ian was turning to leave and it really was truly for the last time. Only then did he throw him a bone. Scraps on the floor and fuck if Ian didn't leap at them. Always fine as long as no one knows. And that just summed it all up, really. Ian spent half his life waiting on Mickey. 

He'd been disappointed by him before. Stood and took his jabs and lies about warm mouths and laid still when something much more sturdy crashed into his gutcheekjaw. But the rush of finally thinking he had him, looking on as he shrugged on his coat with something akin to hope blooming in his chest, he could feel his features harden unconsciously. Suddenly his mouth felt dry and his chest was tight, moving forward to implore just once more. Once more, Mickey _please_ don't fuck it up. 

He should have seen it. This wasn't a fairytale. There was nothing saying the last words of their story were going to speak of happily ever after and fuck he didn't even ask for that. 

He just wanted to spend time with the fucking prick. Just sit and watch a movie, eat a meal. Screw on a bed during the daytime and not have to move with quick hands because the panic of being found was always looming in the background. 

He wasn't asking for a ring or to run off into the sunset. He was asking him not to pledge to fucking love someone else and ask him into his bed in the same breath. He was begging to not be the torrid secret Mickey kept under lock and key, ready to drop at the first sign of trouble. He just wanted to matter. 

For _once_ , he wanted to be something worth standing up and fighting for. 

But Mickey stood at the front of the church and nodded, fucking smiled. And Ian drank. He blinked with heavy eyelids, bottle clutched tight in his hand, having no intention of letting it go for days. 

And really, what was he supposed to say. 

Fuck you.


End file.
